Master Whatsyourname~

If I tried to tell this story out loud, it would never happen. You had only been here, what?- half a candlemark?- asked only the necessary questions, and still we found ourselves in the same pretty pie that happens every time. ‘You don’t talk much,’ you say, and I nod. You’re wrong, I do talk-- it is only that as a matter of necessity I have pared my choice of words down to the bare minimum. If you or anyone else chose to observe the subtle nuances of expression and body language, you would find I speak volumes. So you, unschooled in the arts of human communication- and you a healer, special ordered all the way from Faranth knows where to work your good offices on certain knees, for shame! Did they teach you nothing there in that Hall?- you chalk my taciturn manner up to shyness, self-doubt brought on due to stutter, or even worse, stupidity.

So you talk, a long chatty stream full of witticism and cheer, in your no doubt practiced healer fashion, and I listen. I nod, I ‘ummhmm’. I should give you a little credit- or perhaps you’ve been talking to my darling brother and have been enlightened, who knows- because you have noticed that I have been in a rather sour mood. You begin to suspect one of those emotional conditions like the one affecting A’drias. Yes, I know about A’drias- I may be quiet, but I’m not deaf. There has been talk of starvation. Put that together with the fact that he has a shadow by the name of C’olby and it’s there plain as day for anyone who can see it, and there is not much I do not see. Rest assured, my sour mood is just that, a sour mood. A woman can have an off day, can she not? But you seem to be interested, just the same, and so you brought me writing supplies, and exhorted me to give my ‘history’.

I asked you then what you meant by history. You said, ‘Whatever you think is relevant.’ You do not have hides enough for what I think is relevant, good sir, and since you were being so smug and Masterhealerish in your demeanor, I have decided to waste (or grace, depending on your perspective) what pages you do have with my ‘history’. Since I’m going to be here for a while- and don’t you lie to me with that typical healer jargon and reassuring ‘we’ll sees’, I can tell by the look on your face it’s bad- a while, as I said, it seems to me a decent use of time. (Sarlan has promised me some sketches of this Turn’s new fashions from the Gather at Two Rivers, but they have yet to arrive. If they had, I think I would have cheerfully fed your hides to the watch-wher.) You said you had business with some other healer, so you have left me to my scribbling, propped up with pillows in this disgusting infirmary cot.

I have decided to use every sheet of this fine quality hide you offered me, less to satisfy my biographical urge than to give you an excess of schoolwork. I do the same thing to harper whatshisname; he wants me to write essays, he gets them, in heaps. I get a secret joy out of seeing his face when I plop a nine-pager down on his desk. My mother says nothing is more annoying that listening to someone talk about themselves, so when the glowbasket is still open on your desk at midnight, think of me and smile. I think the harper does.

I was born aboard ship, in passage to the Southern Continent. I believe my parents left from Keroon. They originally hailed from South Boll, but the story of their journey from that hold to their port of exodus is longer even than I am inclined to write today. Mother will tell you that our (I am Sarlan’s twin) birth was a miserable experience, and that she has never looked at another baby without feeling seasick. We were early by nearly five sevendays. I was tiny, and first in line. Sarlan outweighed me by double, and nearly killed Mother, to hear her tell it. We all ended up at the East Rock Territory, where we were sent out to what was then a tiny speck of a cothold, Lavendar Shoals. They make purple dye there, hence the name. Mother was supposed to be a tailor, but was demoted to cook, an occurrence that has shaped all the rest of her life and most of mine. Father has worked at perfecting the purple from the washy, overblue stain it used to be to the bright violet hues you see today. My earliest memory is of the color purple, on his hands. He is blue-red to the elbows, now.

They thought I was a gifted child. Mother taught me to read and write at three Turns, and I was much petted and adored. Convinced of my special destiny as a genius, Mother bragged to the heights about my certain future as Mastersomething of Pern. She took me to a healer especially to have me diagnosed as extraordinary, once, when I was five. He had heard I was clever, then talked with me for awhile and heard the stutter. He then pronounced that I’d make a splendid wife someday, and thus, with much ceremony, I was taught from an early age to be....a seamstress.

There is little talk of my special destiny around the home, these days. Now I am a Candidate, to most unenlightened folk just a mere part of the shrubbery. It’s all right, I’m more than content to be an obscure little bush in the Weyrforest.

Mother has what I would call a ‘unique’ perspective on life. She has shared it with me, taught me her methods, tested and schemed and waged all-out threadfight against me, and I have survived, so far. I have always been able to read people well; she taught me to read them better. I scan when I need to, I skip when I can. It’s a fun game, most times, keeps me well amused. I have underestimated a few people along the way, and I have lost the occasional round, but for the most part, I know what I’m doing. I am watchful, and I choose my actions carefully. I promised myself when I came here that I would curb that lesser instinct that compels me to match up against anyone and everyone. I have succeeded, for the most part. There was the matter of some embroidery; a minor slip in my resolve to stay out of everyone’s business. I have noticed since coming here an appalling awareness of conscience. I try to stifle it, but it keeps coming up. I actually feel guilty when I play a gambit now- I take that as some improvement. It is all a matter of control. I will stay in control, and if willpower can defeat the caustic venom destroying tendon and bone in my knee, I’ll be back on the duty roster in no time at all. There is a worry that it will prove to be like my stutter- impossible to defeat. Yes, the stutter is impossible to defeat. Trust me, it is. I have tried for Turns, but the sharding impediment won’t go away. Everyone said age would straighten it out for me; I must have heard a thousand tales of bronzerider Sm’body, whose stutter was worse than mine, who became Weyrleader of So-and-so Weyr as a result of his later-developed speaking ability.. As you have heard for yourself, it did not. If this snakebite is the same way, you might as well get the bone saw now.

My conscience reminds me not to be so dramatic. I can’t help it- I’m Chalyba, and I’m in a particularly sour mood. There are multiple reasons.

The main reason should be obvious- it’s the reason you are here. It was a very simple, very unlucky accident that happened six days ago. We were forming up for a sack toss drill, and I needed two more sacks to be fully prepared. I went up to the pile of sacks- you’ve seen them, we set them out by the big boulder on the edge of the lake. The first sack at the edge of the pile had a knot in it the size of a queen dragon, and I couldn’t get it untied from the cluster it was bound up in. (I wholeheartedly suspect Declan. Duckboy will pay one of these days, I assure you.) I started digging through sacks; every single one was knotted like that. Tied that way just to make you look like an idiot in front of the Candidate Master. I do that often enough with the stutter, thank you very much. I’m getting a bit piqued by now, and matters are not helped by someone yelling that Jeyth- T’nel’s brown, who in charge of us at that moment- is asking what is taking us so long.

Now, T’nel and I have an understanding. He makes my life miserable, and I do the same for him. It is a sort of friendly mutual destruction. He never should have made fun of the stutter, especially in front of the Weyrleaders, and I doubt I should have mixed numbweed in the grease he uses on his riding straps. How was I to know we’d get called for snap inspection? But I digress. I turned and started to give T’nel a handsign I learned in the less fashionable lower caverns of the Azov seaport while I was struggling to free the one unknotted sack from where it had sunk into a hole next to the big boulder.

A moment’s lack of control equals a lifetime’s regret. Had I been watching, I would have seen it. The snake was huge- over six feet, and as thick as a man’s arm. No one I have spoken to since says they have ever seen such a big snake here within the confines of the Weyr. Never mind that the dragons have scared all the big ones off, never mind that the big boulder is in the open daylight where no snake ever likes to go, or that sacks have been piled there on toss training days for likely Turns before I even arrived here. Evidently, its burrow extended beneath the boulder to provide it good access to the water from the lake, but the sacks’ weight had caved in the tunnel, and I managed to be the lucky girl to be the very first non-snake it encountered. It was not pleased; tunnel snakes as a rule are not cheerful creatures.

It wrapped itself around my leg and sunk its jaws in just above my kneecap, all before my mind had registered ‘snake’. The pain, I have to say, was an altogether overwhelming sensation. The snake, pleased with its work, proceeded to chew on my leg, working its venom in with an efficiency that would make a Headwoman proud. It also dug its claws in, intent upon having a Chalyba nooning. I recognized the spotty brown markings on pale blue hide- the snake was a Speckled Firetooth. All the varieties of snake on beautiful Pern and I had to get bitten by the most painful species. Lucky, lucky me.

T’nel, admirable wherry turd that he is, crossed the distance between Jeyth and us in record time. I was thrashing about on the ground, by then, grappling the man-length serpent as best I could when I wasn’t too busy screaming in agony. ‘Firetooth’ is a very appropriate name for this particular nasty beast. It felt like I imagine threadscore must, only about a hundred times worse, as it encompassed every nerve in my body. Lunirith--you've heard of Lunirith, of course--smart dragon that he is, clever, calm, and so many other superlatives, had the presence of mind to pull me out of the mound of sacks and lay me flat on the ground as T’nel approached. Tell me, have you ever heard of a blue so sensible as to summon three firelizards (I don’t know whose they were, so don’t ask) to dispatch the wicked creature? The little flitters popped out of between and went to work. The little brown and two blues pierced the snake’s head, right where the skull joins the spine, without giving me so much as a scratch in the process.

So, the flits have convinced the snake that its rudeness is ill-advised. The only trouble is, I don’t have the strength to get it off me. Lunirith obliges again, chomping down on its tail and pulling while I pry the teeth out of my flesh. T’nel has arrived in the company of many others, weyrfolk and dragonriders alike, and in true son-of-a-healer fashion, removes my boot, and slashes my trousers leg off above the knee. It’s a good thing he did it in that order- my foot had already swollen so badly he had to yank the boot off; five seconds more and it wouldn’t have budged. Weyrlingmaster Second Karin stripped off her belt and wrapped it as a constriction band around my thigh, just as T’nel slashed an ‘X’ above the bite mark.

Now, many girls would adore having their thigh sucked by the bearded wonder that is T’nel, but I would have preferred a more intimate setting. Karin pulls my helmet off and hovers above my face, asking me if I can speak. I believe my reply was, “UNNNGH, AUGGHH, AHHHH,” or something such.

I was doing my best amidst the agony to keep calm, but my awareness had started by that point to get a little fuzzy. It turns out, I’m allergic to Speckled Firetooth venom, and demonstrated this fact by having a massive seizure, right there next to the big boulder. If T’nel wasn’t the spectacular thigh-sucker he is and hadn’t disposed of the majority of the venom before it hit my brain, I would most certainly be dead now. I must thank Karin for flying out to the Smithcrafthall to bring my brother to me; Sarlan’s presence here is very welcome, given the gravity of the situation. I did survive those first ugly days, but the future remains unclear. The venom has caustic properties; it is starting to degrade the kneecap and tendons, and an abscess is forming. There is discussion that the leg must come off, if I am to live. I knew it was serious when you, a special order Masterhealer with experience in wound care (and no doubt, amputation) were flown here in a doubletime hurry. I know, I must try to be brave and accepting, but since I’m in such a truthful mood, I’ll tell you straight: being a dragonrider (if I Impress, mind) with one leg and a bad stutter is the last thing I ever imagined I would be, and I’m scared. I’m doing my best not to let on; only Sarlan really knows just how deeply I am frightened, and perhaps one other, though I’m not sure if I was dreaming or not when I remember that a man was sitting with me a few nights ago, when the fever got high.

I thought he was my father, but that’s impossible. Father and Mother are both on the Northern Continent at the Master Weavercrafthall, so the chances of this man being nothing but a dream figment are high. I know I addressed him as ‘Daddy’ once or twice, and he did not correct me. I was allowing myself in half-crazed, fellis fueled, feverish torment to cry.

Crying is my least favorite thing to do, and even in my waking dream state I refused to allow myself the gulping sobs so many girls are fond of; instead I bunched up into a ball and shook, washing the pillow with a steady leakage of salty Chalyba essence. I was half aware of someone there, holding my hand and speaking in soothing cadences; it was a nice voice, and I fell asleep to the sound of it. Whether it was real or not, that voice helped me through that night.

Now I read back these paragraphs and am sickened by my womanly sniveling. Self-pity and sentimentality are for the weak- and I will not be weak. It is all a matter of willpower and self-control, virtues I have in abundance. I will not lose my leg; I will not die. I will not fail myself nor will I weep; I will not lose control. Adversity is nothing in the face of determination. If you come near me with that bone saw, I’ll make you regret it. I would go on with a string of threats and invective, but Iron and Ore, Sarlan’s two flits, have arrived so my brother’s presence is imminent. Though there is still hide to write on, I will stop for now. It looks like you get a reprieve from midnight reading, Master Whatsyourname. This will probably only last until after dinner, but I promise I’ll give you all the reading you could wish for, eventually. Tell you what, let’s make it a trade: you manage somehow to save my sharding leg, I’ll scorching shut up. How does that suit you?